The room’s previous occupant had tuned the radio to the Armed Forces Heartland Network, on which a newsreader was now ticking off the overnight items. The US Navy was continuing to scale back its anti-piracy patrols along the East Coast. A severe blizzard that had shut down the West Coast was heading inland and expected to be over KC by nightfall – a point that left Caitlin feeling satisfied with her decision to fly out that morning. Local police were still appealing for witnesses to a hit-and-run accident near the River Market. And tickets for three Avril Lavigne concerts at Kemper Arena in February next year had sold out yesterday within an hour of being available online.

Caitlin changed into her clothes for the day: jeans, a red Kansas City Chiefs sweatshirt she’d bought from the gift shop in the hotel lobby, and a leather jacket. There would be time enough to get into uniform as Colonel Katherine Murdoch once she arrived in Fort Hood. She inhaled an oatmeal cookie and an apple for breakfast, brushed her teeth and tossed the toiletries bag into her suitcase. She was done with Kansas City. All of the files and briefing notes she had reviewed were sitting in the room’s safe. She always packed her bags the night before departure, meaning she had nothing to do now besides organising a ride to the airport and confirming the handover of the room to the security detachment. She was just reaching for the phone when it rang.

‘Colonel Murdoch? This is Special Agent Dan Colvin. We met briefly yesterday afternoon, you might recall. There’s something I need to discuss with you, if it’s not too inconvenient.’

Caitlin was still groggy and not ready to face anything more challenging than a cup of shitty hotel coffee. The voice on the other end of the line sounded oddly upbeat and cheerful. It was a little too early in the morning to be dealing with . . . well, with morning people.

She remembered this Colvin guy, though. He was with the FBI’s field office here in KC, handling inter-agency liaison. He’d been one of her first contact points when she arrived as the emissary of Chief of Staff Culver. He had taken her to a couple of agencies and briefings. Built like a runner, with a face chiselled out of hard, unforgiving brown basalt, Special Agent Colvin was the type of man who left an impression.

‘Hang on, would you, Agent?’

Caitlin tossed the phone on the bed without giving him a chance to reply. She went through to the bathroom, splashed water on her face and towelled off, which woke her up some. She took three seconds to force herself into the role of Colonel Katherine Murdoch. It was the mental equivalent of pulling on somebody else’s skin.

‘Sorry,’ she said upon returning to the line, ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night. Is there something I can help you with?’